


No Matter Where You Go... (There You Are)

by tryslora



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: hp_tarot, Gen, M/M, Single Father, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, Wordcount: Over 1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-26
Updated: 2011-09-26
Packaged: 2017-10-24 02:06:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/257691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <blockquote>
<br/><i>It wasn’t quite over when Draco left for the first time.</i><p><i>Blaise was still back there, somewhere, along with the charred remains of a boy who had been Draco’s shadow since childhood. The others he had grown up with—Pansy, Daphne, Theodore—they were all somewhere amongst the crowds. Alive, he hoped, although he couldn’t be sure.  But Draco left, his mother’s arm across his back, his father trailing somewhere behind, with furtive glances to make sure they were not followed. They walked down the long path together. The Malfoys: disgraced, set aside, alone.</i></p><p><i>He wondered why they were being allowed to leave.</i></p><p><i>He wondered how far they could get before anyone noticed.</i></p><p><i>And he wondered if he would truly be able to leave it all behind.</i></p></blockquote><p>When the war is done, Draco walks away. Eventually, he realizes it is time to stop leaving, and to find a new path and possibly an end to his journeying. A surprise encounter with an ex-classmate adds a few unexpected bumps in the road.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Matter Where You Go... (There You Are)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the hp_tarot fest on LJ/IJ/DW. My chosen card was the Knight of Wands, which traditionally means a departure or absence. I took this to mean a fair-haired youth on a journey, but not only the physical sort.
> 
> The people and world of Harry Potter belong to JK Rowling; I just like to write here. No infringement is intended.
> 
> Thank you to eternaleponine for the beta!

It wasn’t quite over when Draco left for the first time.

Blaise was still back there, somewhere, along with the charred remains of a boy who had been Draco’s shadow since childhood. The others he had grown up with—Pansy, Daphne, Theodore—they were all somewhere amongst the crowds. Alive, he hoped, although he couldn’t be sure. But Draco left, his mother’s arm across his back, his father trailing somewhere behind, with furtive glances to make sure they were not followed. They walked down the long path together. The Malfoys: disgraced, set aside, alone.

He wondered why they were being allowed to leave.

He wondered how far they could get before anyone noticed.

And he wondered if he would truly be able to leave it all behind.

#

Six months later, he left for the second time.

The Malfoy family had been sequestered in Malfoy Manor for the first two months after the final battle, awaiting trial. Then another month while it was decided that Lucius would be remanded to Azkaban, and during which Narcissa was pardoned for her betrayal of Voldemort in those critical moments, saving Potter’s life. Draco was pardoned as well, solely due to having been a minor when he took the Mark, and forced into service for the Dark Lord. He was assigned three months’ community service, which he served in haughty silence, ministering to those that filled the wards of St. Mungo’s, taking care of those who suffered spell damage from the war: curses that wouldn’t heal, nightmares that left wizards and witches without sleep for weeks at a time. He made sure they had the comforts they needed, yet spoke not a word to any of them.

But he heard every damned thing that they said to him. Every word, all angry and often vicious, reminding him of the evils he had done during the war. However softly spoken, he heard them all.

On his last day, he went in to see the Longbottoms for the first time. He had avoided them carefully until that moment, and likewise avoided the tall, broad-shouldered son of theirs who sat with them almost daily, as if he hoped something might change now that Bellatrix was dead.

It didn’t work like that, Draco could have told him. Her death was no release from the nightmares she had given away so freely. He knew that far too well.

He walked past where Neville sat in a chair off to one side, ignoring the way the other boy straightened, back suddenly stiff and wary. Instead he laid one hand upon Alice’s shoulder, and the other on Frank’s. When she turned her round face towards him, her smile soft and bland and somehow kind despite the blank look in her eyes, he smiled sadly back at her.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “for what she did to you. I think she was mad even then. But she’s gone now, and you’re stronger than this. I survived her and I’m still standing. It’s time for you to bloody well wake up, or move on.”

Draco left then, leaving St. Mungo’s, collecting the bags he had stashed in his locker earlier that day. He had said his farewell to his mother that morning, kissed her on the cheek and wished her well as she chose to join Lucius in Azkaban until his sentence would be up someday.

He left St. Mungo’s, and standing on the sidewalk outside, he turned over a bottle cap in his hand, watching as the sunlight glinted off the shiny underside. He smiled faintly, then he was gone.

#

There came a time when he stopped leaving. He had traveled extensively, refusing to connect to any one place before abandoning it again. He stayed in Rome for three months, and Kyoto for seven. Paris lasted barely two months before he left without a word those who had hired him. Nowhere appealed as he spent the next eight months traveling from Barcelona to Budapest, then moving across the pond to Buenos Aires and Los Angeles. He finally found something resembling peace in New York, and after a month spent in a dingy flat above a small deli, he realized that he didn’t feel that itch to move on.

Without it, he wasn’t entirely certain what he ought to do. His twentieth birthday had come and gone, and he was finally in a place where if they had heard of Draco Malfoy, they didn’t care, and most hadn’t heard. They regarded the mark on his arm as a strange sort of tattoo and praised the detail of the ink, as if it hadn’t burned into his very soul when it was placed.

He had an opportunity to create a new person. To become himself, for the very first time.

The difficulty was, Draco had absolutely no idea who that might be.

He spent the next month getting to know this place, coming to understand the mixed world of Muggle and Wizarding that the Americans seemed to enjoy. The entrance to the main Wizarding thoroughfare of the city had one end in Times Square, and another in Central Park. He would often walk to the park and spend the morning there, then the afternoon shopping for ingredients, and his evenings brewing potions at home before venturing out the other side into Times Square to watch the strangeness of the Muggle night travelers.

He had hoped to find a potion master to take him as apprentice, but despite the quality of his work, none were willing to take on another person. He started to drift once more, not certain of the next step until he found himself one afternoon in front of Aberdeen Memorial, the hospital just off Mulligan Lane. It was two blocks from his flat, just left of center in the Wizarding world, and the size of it put St. Mungo’s to shame.

“We’re a teaching hospital,” the nurse explained to him as he took a tour, his application clasped in one hand. “But you knew that, since you’re applying to be a nurse. I’m surprised you don’t want to be a doctor. We don’t have many male nurses.”

Draco mentally translated that to _Healer_ rather than _Doctor_ , and gave a shrug. He wasn’t certain he wanted to be a nurse either, but something had brought him here. “I’m afraid I don’t have the marks to earn entrance into the Healer’s apprenticeship,” he said. “And I’ve a bit of experience caring for patients.” And it hadn’t been entirely awful, if he focused on the work he’d done, rather than the attitudes of those he helped. “I’ve a good hand with potions, and I’m quick work with spells.”

“And most of our patients will adore that accent of yours. Just talk enough and they’ll all want to stay here just to have you nurse them.”

The woman grinned, and Draco wondered if she were flirting with him. He then wondered if putting down roots for his home meant he also ought to be putting down roots in the rest of his life. He smiled back, carefully casual. “You have a ward for magical mishaps, I do believe?”

“The Hazel Wormwood Ward, yes,” she said. “But you’ll need to complete two years of training first, before you’ll start working with patients directly, or choose a ward. And you might decide after that you’d rather transfer to another hospital somewhere else in the country.”

Two years sounded like an eternity to Draco. Two years in one place. Two years of doing one thing. He had spent two years being Voldemort’s lackey. His lips pressed thinly together. Perhaps these two years would erase those in some karmic manner. “I’m not leaving New York,” he said flatly. “I’ll be joining the Hazel Wormwood Ward in two years.”

#

Those years passed quickly, moreso than any of the time that Draco had spent traveling. It was a journey of a different sort, a life filled with constant change as he adjusted to the expectations of what was meant by being a nurse. The first year was spent entirely in courses, learning the spells required to analyze blood, administer medications, and how to know when potions would conflict. Draco was adept and learned quickly, and as study groups developed, he became the leader of his. A group of five—the one other male nurse in the class, and three women—became close friends, going out into Times Square to drink and dance when classes were done for the day. Haley, a girl just out of Salem Academy, flirted unmercifully with him for months, then teased him at the distance he held. She asked, quite bluntly, one night whether he had refused her advances because he’d rather flirt with Paul than her, and he responded that frankly, he wasn’t interested in that sort of relationship at all, with either gender.

Draco knew it wasn’t usual, and suspected that perhaps he ought to see someone about the problem. It was as if that aspect of his personality had been closed down when he took the Mark, and had never found a reason to reopen. He remembered flirtations when he was younger with all the pale soft light of youthful memories, but none of them called to him. And it didn’t bother him to feel this way, thus, he simply went on as he was, deferring Haley’s questions, turning her into a treasured friend rather than the girlfriend she’d hoped to be.

He started at the Hazel Wormwood Ward on July 15th, 2002. He had done one round of his practice rotations here, and the staff remembered him well. He was set straight to tasks, given a stack of charts and a list of rooms that were his to care for during his shift. Before he set off, Nurse Heather caught him and drew him aside.

“If you could spend some extra time with 203, I’d appreciate it,” she said quietly. “The patient there is just three years old, and her father’s not handling it well. They were supposed to travel home two weeks ago, and he hasn’t wanted to move her. I haven’t asked, but I think he’s given up his hotel and has been staying just in her room, and he’s looking rough. He might like to hear a voice from home.”

A voice from home… whoever he was, Draco rather doubted that his own voice would be at all calming, if they shared a background. He huffed a small sigh as Heather walked away and shuffled through his charts, finding the one for 203.

 _Lorelei Ginevra Longbottom_. Born February 22, 1999, she had been traveling in New York while her father was here for business. She had drunk a potion of unknown makeup and fallen asleep on May 3rd. Nothing had managed to rouse her since.

Was it something about the Longbottom heritage, Draco wondered, that saw them coming to such places so often? Or was it Longbottom himself, and some _thing_ about him that sent his relatives into mental hazes? Draco tucked the chart for 203 back on the bottom of his stack, and stopped in quickly to take care of the other patients on his list. He smiled, charming them along the way, speaking more than he had to as that nurse long ago had been right and his silky tones seemed to please them.

When he reached 203, he saw Longbottom standing in the doorway, back stiff, expression wary. “Malfoy.” If Draco had to guess, Heather must be right. It looked as if Longbottom hadn’t done more to clean up than possibly some charms to keep his scruff from getting too long, and keep his clothes from stinking, although they were still rumpled.

Draco gave him the same bland, polite smile that he gave to them all, adding a hint of charming to try to tilt it towards vaguely friendly. “Longbottom. I didn’t realize you were in New York.”

“Didn’t know you were here either.” The reply was thick and gruff, not even attempting a veneer of proper intonation to cover the country accent.

Longbottom didn’t move, so Draco simply stepped around him, brushing by him in the narrow doorway. Ancient animosity or not, he had a job to do.

The child on the bed had a soft fluff of fair hair spread across the pillow, and a round face that was relaxed in sleep. Draco checked the spells that hovered over her, making quite certain that her heart rate, breathing, nutrition and everything else were proper. He added a nutrient potion to the mix, pausing when he heard something that sounded rather like a growl.

He glanced back over his shoulder to see Longbottom standing with his arms crossed, glaring at him. “Just what the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?” Longbottom ground out.

“My job,” Draco said simply, and turned back to continue that. The charts called for her to be turned to avoid bed sores, so he did so. “Your daughter is to be one of my patients starting today. I’ll be on shift Monday through Thursday from half eight in the morning until half six in the evening, then again on Saturday from eight until noon.”

“You’re a healer?”

Draco could hear the disblief in Longbottom’s voice. “No,” he corrected. “I am a nurse. Just graduated, top of my class. I assure you, she’ll be in good hands while I’m here.” Curiosity got the best of him, his gaze drawn back to the pale hair. “By her name, I’d guessed she was a Weasley, but her hair isn’t red. Where is your wife?” One eyebrow rose to echo the politely framed question as he waited.

Longbottom stared at him, and Draco could almost see the small war inside his mind as he tried to decide what to say. “I’m not married,” he finally said. “Luna got pregnant during the war, but she’s not ready to be a mum. Or rather, she’s a brilliant mum, but she’s not ready to settle down and be married and be a mum all the time. She’s good to Lora, but mostly, Lora’s just mine.”

“Ah. I see.” A child out of wedlock, and a Longbottom raising her on his own. Draco could hear Narcissa’s voice expressing her opinion of the scandal, and how this proved, once more, that Longbottoms were never meant for society.

Longbottom sank back down in the chair next to the bed, one large hand covering his daughter’s hand, clasping it carefully. Pain tightened his expression as his jaw clenched. “It’s my fault,” he said quietly. “I wasn’t watching properly, and I was rushing to finish a potion so we could go out that day. I’d promised her we could go to that Muggle zoo. She was bored, and when someone popped into the Floo, she drank the potion while I was talking to them.”

“What was the potion?” Draco assumed the question had been asked, but interest in the case drove him to ask it again.

“It was going to be a Draught of Dreams,” Longbottom replied. His gaze remained fixed on his daughter’s slow breath. “I brought in my notes, told them everything I’d done so far and what was left to go of the potion to complete it. All we can think is that she added something to it.”

Draco had no experience with children, but from what he heard, they enjoyed touching everything and putting it in their mouth, thus this had the sound of a reasonable theory to him. “Were you missing anything from your stock?”

“Nothing I could identify.” He hesitated, then added, “Or remember.”

Ah, right, Longbottom of the swiss cheese memory. Draco supposed it was more than possible that something had once existed, but if it were gone completely, it had slipped from the other man’s mind, never to be recalled. “You keep records of your stock, do you not?” One eyebrow lifted as he regarded the slumped man. “Longbottom,” he said sharply.

“What?” Longbottom glared at him. “You’re done here, aren’t you? Leave me be. I don’t need you to stand around gloating over how I’ve arsed this up like everything else.”

Draco blinked quickly. “I’m not gloating, Longbottom. I’m _trying_ to help. What is it, exactly, that brought you to New York?”

“I’ve worked with specialized plants, and potions based on those plants, since the war,” Longbottom explained, gaze narrowing and still full of distrust. “I’d come to collect a few varieties of plants for my greenhouse, and work on this one potion, designed to the specification of the requester. Why?”

Draco smiled, pasting on his charm. “If you run a business, then you have lists. When I’m off shift, we’ll be heading back to your hotel room to peruse those records, and we shall determine what the unexpected ingredient is. I was one of the top minds in Potions; I’m quite certain I can unravel the way to brew a proper antidote.” When Longbottom went to protest, Draco raised one finger, cutting him off. “No arguments, Longbottom. I shall ensure there is someone here to sit with your daughter at all times, and to contact us immediately if there is any change in her condition.”

“It’s not that.” Longbottom gestured tiredly at the bags tucked in one corner. “The rental on the room ran out two weeks ago, and I didn’t bother to renew. I’d rather be here with Lora anyway. So everything’s right here.”

Both eyebrows arched as Draco nodded, lips pursed in consideration. “Well then. Give me one moment to speak with my superior, then we shall get started.”

#

An hour later found Draco and Longbottom in an unused office, papers spread across the desk. Draco sorted them neatly, determined to find a link, despite the Healer’s insistance that this had all been done once before. After all, Draco had pointed out, _he_ had not been the one to do so, and he highly doubted that any Healer on staff had as high an aptitude with potions as himself.

He frowned at a scrap of paper, trying to read the tiny, cramped writing that covered it. The scrap measured only a couple of inches square, yet seemed to hold as much information as a scroll several inches long. “What is this, Longbottom?” He held it out, waiting impatiently for the other man to take it. “I can’t quite believe how much information you have here, buried in scraps and tidbits, and not a bit of it properly logged for sale or purchase.”

“It’s a receipt.” Longbottom frowned, bringing it up close to his nose. “Three bunches of Hollyfeld Root purchased from Warburton on the third of April, along with three live sprigs of Crimson Flutterby Bush and a note that I sold him one bunch of Wolfsbane to offset the cost. The rest are my notes on the possible uses for what I received.”

“Which are…?” Draco prodded, somewhat impatient. They had gone over several other, similar, scraps already, and for each one he felt as if he pried information from Longbottom so that he could note it in his growing list.

“The Hollyfeld Root ought to be used in purgative compounds, and the Flutterby bush is simply because Lora likes them.” Neville smiled at that. “I’ve shipped them along with everything else back home. Hopefully Luna’s planted them.”

“She sounds still quite involved in your life,” Draco murmured, quill scratching notes across paper. “Perhaps she’ll marry you yet.”

“I doubt it.” He didn’t sound disappointed. “I think she’s fallen in love with Rolf Scamander. They’ve enjoyed traveling together quite a bit lately. He seems good with Lora.”

“Will you give her up to them if they marry then?”

Longbottom gave him a startled look. “Merlin, no. She’s mine. I doubt they’ll ever settle down. Luna knows Lora’s better off with me.” His expression fell. “She was, anyway. Maybe she’d be better off with Luna. She’s never poisoned her anyway.”

Draco set the quill down and glared at him. “And neither have you. She’s sleeping at the moment, and I rather expect having some grand adventures if your potion retained any qualities whatsoever of your Draught of Dreams. She’s quite safe, and we shall find the way to awaken her. You are a hero of the wizarding world, Longbottom. The least you can do is find your backbone and be the hero for your own daughter.”

Silence.

“Why are you doing this?” Longbottom finally asked.

Draco rolled his eyes. “It’s my job, Longbottom.”

“Your job is to check on her fluids and make certain she’s not getting sores,” Longbottom responded. “Not to research a solution. You’ve never been the sort to do things for others, Malfoy. So why the bloody hell are you helping me with this?”

Draco’s lips pursed thinly. “Are you still the same boy who came to Hogwarts when we were eleven, having unwittingly performed magic only once, and who constantly lost his frog? I doubt it. If you think that I am who I once was, then you are being even more of an idiot than I might otherwise expect.”

Silence again, stretching for a long moment until Longbottom finally nodded. “Then we’d best get on with this,” he said.

It was impossible to read his expression, and Draco relaxed slowly as he realized that the arguments had ended. Longbottom might not trust him, but he was willing to work with him. Perhaps they had a chance of figuring this out after all.

#

Five days later, Draco arrived a half hour early for his Saturday shift. He waved to the chief nurse on duty for the day, saying that he’d be back shortly for his charts, and went straight to 203. The door was budged open the tiniest amount, lights still dim inside. He tapped lightly against the wood, then pushed it open to find Longbottom curled in a reclining chair, sleeping next to his daughter’s bed, her small fingers under his larger hand. His lips pursed thinly. That had to be miserably uncomfortable.

He stepped behind Longbottom, touching his shoulder with his fingertips. When Longbottom made a low noise, Draco’s hand settled more firmly against the curve of his shoulder and squeezed lightly.

“Mmph.” Longbottom sat up slowly, leaning back into Draco’s touch, then twisting away as he stretched. There were soft pops and crackles of joints and spine realigning. “M’awake.”

Draco stepped back, moving out of the space created by the warmth of another body, and took up his position leaning against the wall. Arms crossed, chin slightly tilted, he watched Longbottom leverage himself from the chair, stretching again. “Perhaps you ought to remember to transfigure a chair into something more comfortable before you try sleeping in it. Have you truly been doing that for two weeks?”

“Longer,” the other man admitted. “I still had our room at the hotel, but I’ve spent most nights here since she fell asleep. I thought about transfiguring it, but with my luck it’d end up a pile of kindling as much as it might turn into a bed. I was always better with plants or charms. Gran was disappointed.”

“She wasn’t at the end,” Draco pointed out. “You acquitted yourself in the war.”

Longbottom blinked at him. “Someone had to do it and there wasn’t anyone else.”

Draco rolled his eyes. The worst was, Longbottom truly was exactly that humble. “I’ve found a solution.” His gaze flicked to the sleeping girl. “Yesterday was my day off, and I spent much of the morning going through the catalog we’ve put together, and I found a discrepancy. Ironweed. On its own, a significant ingredient in blood strengthening and replenishing potions, but when combined into other types of potions, research has proven that it can intensify the effects by grounding the potion’s magic within the body.”

Longbottom blinked at him. “Are you sure?”

“It is the only item I found in the purchase notes and not in the current inventory. I’m quite certain.” So certain that Draco had gone over the long lists in tight cramped writing four times before he had decided that it was the only possible option. “So certain that I spent last night working on a potion that I believe might help.”

“Have you slept?” Longbottom’s gaze narrowed, focusing in on Draco’s features. He stepped closer, looking down, while Draco’s chin tilted again to look up and meet his gaze past the several inches difference in their height. “You haven’t,” Longbottom stated bluntly.

“A few hours.” Draco shrugged one shoulder. “The potion had to be brewed in one session, and I would not have had the time to try again until tonight, or perhaps Sunday. It seemed best to do so as soon as possible.”

Longbottom stared at him, and Draco stood quite still in the face that regard. He could see the war in Longbottom’s mind, could see the other man turning over whether he ought to trust a Malfoy with the life of his child. They had worked together for several days, making certain that every scrap of inventory was turned into proper records that could help them, and could help Longbottom’s business once he and his daughter had returned to England. But it was clear that trust was still slow in coming.

“You aren’t a healer.”

Draco sighed. “No, I am still a nurse. Properly certified, and if you’ll recall, top of my class in potions when we were in Hogwarts. That hasn’t changed.”

“ _You’ve_ changed.” Longbottom’s tone was quiet and flat, gaze unreadable.

“We covered that already, Longbottom,” Draco said dryly. “Yes, I have changed. We both have. Do you think we might now possibly get on with this?”

Silence again, except for the soft sound of ragged breath, then Longbottom stepped aside and motioned Draco to the bed. “Are they going to be angry that you’ve interfered?” he asked, stepping up close behind Draco.

He was aware of Longbottom there, well within his personal space, trapping Draco between Lora and himself. It made it so that if something were to go wrong he wouldn’t be able to get away. “Likely, yes,” Draco said. “I’m a nurse, not a healer. This isn’t my job.”

Longbottom’s hand found his shoulder, squeezing briefly. “It’s a favor. For a friend.”

What an odd terminology, and entirely unexpected. Draco smiled, not looking back over his shoulder, hand shaking slightly as he brought the vial to Lorelei’s lips. He let two drops fall, then whispered the words of the spell that invoked an involuntary response so that the girl licked her lips and swallowed.

He went to step back as Longbottom leaned in, making space between them impossible. Longbottom’s hand found his, tangling tightly, clinging as they both watched for any change. Draco lifted his free hand, touching the wards around the bed, checking vitals. “She’s dreaming,” he murmured thoughtfully. “Pulse rate a little higher.”

“Her hand twitched.” Longbottom’s hand tightened on his.

The girl in the bed huffed a sigh, and rolled over, gathering in the blankets like a stuffed animal, hugging them to her chest. The wards clanged, recording the first true movement since she had been brought in, alerting the doctors on call that something had changed.

Draco couldn’t breathe, wrapped in Longbottom’s arms and hugged tight, strong hands clapping him on the back. He had never found physical affection simple, and before he could decide whether it was proper to embrace Longbottom in return or not, he was set back on his own feet.

There was a bright light in Longbottom’s eyes, wide and excited for the first time, making Draco think of the eleven year old he remembered seeing Hogwarts for the first time. Only there was no fear, no concern, only excitement for what was to come.

“You did it, Draco.” He clapped Draco’s shoulder again. “You bloody well did it. Thank you.”

A doctor and two other nurses bustled into the room, pushing Draco and Longbottom—Neville?—out of it. “She’s not awake yet,” Draco pointed out. “It might take another dose or two.”

“It will work,” Neville said firmly. “I trust in that. I trust you.”

#

In the end, it took three more doses over the course of six days, the doctors not wanting to task her system by bringing her too swiftly from the depths of the dreams she had fallen into. Four days after that, she was declared strong enough to be moved, and Neville had scheduled a portkey back to England so that she could finish recovering in her home, watching her Flutterby bushes.

Draco helped carry their things to the portkey station, while Neville held Lorelei carefully against one shoulder. The wee girl had soft brown eyes, framed with long lashes, and she stared in fascination at Draco, ducking her head every time he smiled at her. If he waited a moment, patient, she would peek at him again, as if daring him to look back. Once, she smiled at him, and he found himself wondering what it would be like to be a father.

Not yet. He wasn’t ready for that journey.

“Thank you.” It was perhaps the hundredth time Neville had said it, this time offering his hand for a strong clasp that left a lingering warmth after he had let Draco go. “If you’re still in New York next time I return, perhaps I’ll look you up. Unless you’ll be coming back to England?”

Draco shook his head. “I doubt it. I traveled a long path to get here, and right now, I don’t feel that urge to move on.” As odd as it sounded, this was where he was supposed to be, at least for that moment, although he supposed that could change.

“Perhaps that will change in the future.”

Draco blinked as Neville echoed his own thoughts, then made a low noise as Neville pulled him in for a rough hug. Draco managed, this time, a passable attempt at hugging him back, and also kissing the little girl on the cheek and making her giggle. “Thank you,” Neville said again.

Instead of responding, Draco merely handed him the one bag they had, then held out the portkey. There was no one else in the station at the moment, just a small room in the back of the hospital where the wards allowed portkey access for departures and arrivals. “Take care of yourselves,” he said.

He stepped back, watching as Neville pressed the old brass key into his daughter’s hand, wrapping his own hand around it, and moments later simply disappeared. Strange, he thought, to see someone else leave.

Stranger still was the idea that he didn’t have to. Somehow, someway, Draco’s journey was over, and he had found home.


End file.
